Undoing
by takethetardis97
Summary: Following in the footsteps of late uncle, Flynn White works as a beat cop on the streets of Albuquerque. Little does he know that the past he's been trying desperately to forget will resurface in the form of Heisenberg's old partner.
1. Chapter 1

A single, beat-up police car was parked on the street corner of a seedy neighborhood in the outskirts of Albuquerque. In the driver's seat of the vehicle was a middle-aged Latino man with a bag of corn chips in one hand and an open magazine in the other. His partner, or more accurately, his responsibility, sat eagerly in the passenger's seat with wide brown eyes and a grin that tugged slightly to one side.

Flynn White was only twenty-five years old, but he was prepared to take care of any law-breaking should it arise in the ghettos of ABQ. After years of arduous workouts and dedication fueled by the memory of his Uncle Hank, the young man could finally walk and even run with little indication of his crippling condition. The man was born resilient, as one has to be when suffering with cerebral palsy, and through his exertion, the charming tilt of his mouth had become the sole remnant of his affliction. Now a new beat cop for the APD, Flynn knew that Hank would be proud. The boy was all too ready to make his first bust.

"So… uh… when does the excitement happen?" Flynn tentatively asked Officer Reyes, who had just shoved his mouth to capacity with Doritos. The older cop chewed, his thick mustache dancing above his undulating jawline, and he swallowed with a large gulp.

"Kid, you've been watching too many movies," the man replied after his chips were swallowed, and Flynn suddenly felt like he was in one of those cliché cop shows: the ones where the plucky new guy and the mature, experienced officer exchange witty banter whilst on the job. Sure, Flynn knew it was cliché and overdone, but their daily back-and-forth made being a beat cop feel cool as hell.

The digital clock glimmered red with the time, 7:36, and night began to fall outside of the car window. Officer Reyes rolled down the muddled glass and lit a cigarette while Flynn tried to remember if cops were technically allowed to smoke while on duty. The grey smoke rose gracefully into the purple sky, and the red digital six on the clock flickered into a glowing seven. The dodgy neighborhood was unusually peaceful.

"Hang on," Reyes spoke cautiously, diverting his attention from his Sport's Illustrated to a single porch light in the dark street. Flynn followed his gaze, which landed on a small house on the end of the empty street. After a few weeks of patrolling the neighborhood, Flynn knew that no one lived in that tiny little house. Nevertheless, an emaciated man with a far-too-large jacket was crouched on the doorstep. "There you go, White," Reyes chuckled, "There's your excitement. Why don't you check this guy out?"

"Just me?" Flynn asked, peering suspiciously at the figure on the stoop. Reyes let out another muffled laugh, eyes back on his magazine.

"Sure, kid," he replied, "He doesn't look too scary. And I'll be able to see you from here if there's trouble." Flynn nodded, creaking open the car window, stepping out of the seat with long legs, and straightening his badge on his chest. The young man walked with purpose towards the huddle drifter, forgetting his fear.

Flynn was only about ten feet away, but the man on the porch step hadn't even looked up. His fingers fumbled with what looked like the edges of a plastic bag under his enormous jacket. Now that he was close enough, Flynn took a proper look at the sad man on the porch. The guy was dressed as elderly hobos on that street would be, but the face that peaked over the large coat was quite young, although irreparably scarred. The man's bones protruded from his face and body, and his crystal blue eyes flickered with pain and bad memories. Flynn took a few hesitant steps forward, the grass crunching beneath his feet. Clearing his throat, he decided to speak to the young vagabond.

"May I help you, sir?" Flynn asked in his rehearsed, good-cop voice. At the sound of the officer's words, the man looked up from his lap with a flip of his overgrown, brownish-blond hair.

"What?" he replied unsteadily, with wide eyes that indicated he was caught off-guard, "Oh… uh, no I'm good, man." With that, the young man stared back into is lap, waiting for the cop to leave. Flynn only planted his feet further into the grass.

"Is this your house?" the young officer asked suspiciously, knowing very well that it wasn't. The guy on the porch recognized his tone, and as a response, gave Flynn his full attention for the first time.

"Look, guy," he began with pleading eyes, "I won't be long. I promise." The young cop stepped closer, aware of the desperation in the poor man's expression. He sighed, already exasperated but feeling a strange compassion for the man well up inside of him.

"What are you doing out here, anyway?" he asked delicately, peering around the dark, abandoned neighborhood, "I mean, it's a little suspicious to be sitting in front of a house that nobody owns at 8 o'clock. Or any time, for that matter."

"I know," the man admitted, staring at his hands as he continued, "I'm just… paying my respects. Someone I used to know lived here once." At the end of his sentence, he peered up with shiny eyes at the officer. Flynn felt a sadness grow in his chest, but he forced himself to ignore it. He had to get this loser off of the porch step one way or another, and kindheartedness was not the best way to handle that sort of situation.

"Yeah, well they don't live here anymore so…" he replied with his hands on his hips, "Time to go." Instead of rising, the man on the step cast an eye over Flynn, his gaze trailing down to the nametag on his uniform. The officer grew irritated, knowing exactly what was coming next. It's what always came next.

"Shit, you're not…?" the man on the step gasped, and Flynn groaned audibly. Riled, he finished the young man's thought for him.

"What? Heisenberg's son?" Flynn laughed harshly, weaving a hand through his thick brown hair, "Jesus Christ, eight years and people still won't stop reminding me." The huddled young man straightened up, realizing the officer's frustration.

"You don't understand," he responded defensively, "I knew Mr. White." Flynn laughed at the comment, believing that it was impossible for someone to _truly _know his sneaky, multisided dad. Judging by the way he addressed Flynn's late father, the kid on the doorstep was likely a former student.

"Yeah, I thought I knew him, too," the young cop grumbled, quickly pulling the man up by his arm, "All right pal, up you go."

"Hey!" shouted the young man with the oversized clothes, and Flynn heard the pattering of something dropping to the pavement at their feet. Peering down simultaneously, the two men stood a few feet apart with an innumerable amount of pills on the ground between them.

"What are those?" Flynn asked incredulously, realizing now what he had happened upon. The shorter man's eyes shifted, eventually falling to the ground. His body followed suit, and soon he was attempting to scoop the pills back into the opened ziplock bag from his jacket.

"They're nothing," he insisted, fumbling with the pills in his hands with a few dropping back to the pavement. Flynn bent down to the ground to meet him, raising a single tablet to eye level.

"This doesn't look like nothing," he said reproachfully, "This looks like a shit-ton of painkillers." Feeling guilty under the cop's intense gaze, the man rubbed his hands over his face and into is shaggy hair. Tears welled in his eyes and he sniffled, obviously trying to contain his emotions. Flynn guessed that containing his emotions was not exactly this man's strong suit.

"Look man, can't you just let me do this?" he pleaded in a broken voice, "After tonight, you won't have to deal with me in your beat ever again." Flynn inched closer to the man, who was trembling now.

"Because you'll be dead?" he questioned slightly more severely than he had intended, "I can't just leave a guy to kill himself; that's not how my job works." Despite the cop's reasoning, the man was still shaking his head.

"Officer White, man," he implored, and the respectful address sounded out of place to Flynn, "Everyone will be happier once I'm gone."

"Come on, that can't be true," the young cop attempted to reason, but his heart was already breaking for the wounded man. Still, the young guy shook his head with tears now trickling onto his scarred cheeks.

"No, it is," he answered in a now even and straightforward tone, seeming like he was convincing himself rather than the young officer, "_Literally _everyone would be better off. If my parents knew I was still alive, they'd want me dead, too." Flynn began to disagree, but he could see in those melancholy blue eyes that he was serious. After a few moments of quiet, the man made a final statement. "I'm doing the world a favor, Officer," he said with a heartbreaking smile, "I'm doing _you _a favor."

"Yeah? How would killing yourself be doing me a favor?" Flynn replied angrily, but the desperation was as clear in his own voice as it was in the other man's. Resting back on the front steps, the emaciated man wiped his face and stared the young cop directly in the eye.

"Because I'm Jesse Pinkman."


	2. Chapter 2

"White! Is everything okay over there?"

Flynn's radio sounded, but it took the young man a few moments to respond. Just a small number of feet in front of him was the man with whom his father had committed countless horrible crimes. Flynn quickly remembered his stage of denial; it was back a year or so after Walter White's death, and he didn't want to fully believe that his father was the monster that he was made out to be. The numerous drug deals and murders and random explosions had to have been somebody's fault, but Flynn initially refused to consider that his father was responsible. That is where Pinkman had come in.

"Everything's fine," he replied mechanically into his radio, "W-we're almost done here."

For almost two years after the downfall of the great Heisenberg, Flynn had checked the papers and the television and the computer nearly every day, his eyes glowing murderously in search of the story that reported the death or arrest of Jesse Pinkman. It was a justified hatred, he reasoned; his father hadn't shown the slightest sign of malice before the kid had supposedly reentered his life. Flynn had never even met the man that he, to himself, swore to one day kill. For the first time, that man was standing before him.

"You're a wanted man, Jesse Pinkman," Flynn replied with a bravado that reminded him very much of Hank. Jesse wiped his eyes, nearly laughing at the comment.

"Yeah, thanks for the update, pal," he responded, waving the half-full bag of pills, "You know, I used to be really afraid of jail…" he trailed off looking into Flynn's eyes again. The officer waited a few moments for him to continue, and he did with a sad smile as he twiddled an aspirin between his fingers. "Yeah, you know; the thought of being trapped and alone terrified the shit out of me," he chuckled, as though the fear were naïve, "But I look back on the last eight years… Hell, actually, I look back on my entire life, and I realize that jail would be no different than what I've always lived."

Flynn always thought this would be so easy. The name 'Jesse Pinkman' had become a lost cause for the APD, let alone the rest of the country. Eight years had gone by without a single sighting of the man and now- Flynn had him right where he wanted him. It was poetic justice, really: Heisenberg's son taking down the man responsible for creating Heisenberg.

Except he wasn't responsible for creating Heisenberg, Flynn realized. His father had made himself. Jesse Pinkman was just some kid who didn't know what the hell he was getting himself into.

"You know, for a cop, you're pretty slow with the handcuffs," Jesse pressed, presenting his wrists with no intention of struggle, "Don't worry, I'm not resisting arrest. We don't need to add that to the list." He looked up thoughtfully in a casual way that didn't fit the circumstances. "Not that you can add to a life sentence," he murmured emotionlessly, wrists still offered to the officer. Pinkman waited patiently, but Flynn made no movement towards his handcuffs. In that moment, he had forgotten his badge.

"Why you?" Flynn questioned, and silence fell.

"What?" Pinkman uttered, lowering his wrists to his sides and studying the cop with questioning eyes. Flynn was frozen in his position, his eyes slightly watering from either his failure to blink or the wall of pure emotion that had just hit him.

"My father had always been there for me growing up," he began distantly, "One day, he wasn't. One day, I find out that the reason my dad didn't come home at night was because he was spending what was left of his life with some old student of his instead of with his family." Flynn was still completely overcome by shock and his eyes were fixed on Pinkman, who was now focused on the grass under his feet. "So my question is," the officer gulped, holding back the anger that was just beginning to surface, "What makes you so special?"

"Nothing," Jesse replied reflexively, but he immediately saw the flash of anger and disbelief in the younger man's eyes, "I don't know. All I know is that he did all of it for his family."

"Don't bullshit me," Flynn snarled instinctively, "I got enough of that with him. Nothing he did benefitted me." The other man immediately looked away with guilt, remembering Walter White towards the end. No, that wasn't a man who understood family.

"I'm sorry, Walt, but I knew his intentions were good to begin with," Jesse attempted to reassure him, but Flynn's face only grew more reddened with rage.

"D-don't you dare call me that, Pinkman," he shouted, reverting back to his stuttered voice despite himself. He stepped closer, towering over the frightened, disheveled man.

"Isn't that your name?" Jesse asked in a timid voice, raising his hands in defense. The officer took a half-second to collect himself. He was aware that he was beginning to act unprofessional.

"I haven't gone by that in years," he informed Pinkman in a solemn tone. "It's Flynn." "Actually," he amended in a more callous voice, "it's Officer White to you." Just then, his radio beeped, and he knew that his partner must have seen him shouting.

"Is everything all right over there? Do you need back up?" Reyes inquired instantly. Flynn's anger returned; it was not a good time to pester him.

"Just give me a goddamn second, Reyes," he barked into the radio. He shot a vengeful look towards Jesse, who was back on the stoop looking downright terrified. _For a coldblooded drug dealer, this guy was a pussy._

"Jesus, White, what has gotten into you?" Reyes replied through the static in the radio, "Anyway, our shift is almost over." Flynn took a deep breath to try to calm himself once more. For the sake of his job, he needed to get out of there: but he sure as hell was not finished with Jesse Pinkman.

"You might want to handcuff me before your shift is done," the guy on the doorstep piped, standing again and holding out his arms, "I mean, the sooner I'm put away the better, right?" Flynn stared at the man he'd loathed for years and simply shook his head.

"I'm not going to arrest you," Flynn muttered, much to his own and Jesse's surprise, "I'm going to be back here by ten tonight. You better be here, and you better be alive. Do you understand, Jesse Pinkman?" The blond man looked completely thunderstruck, and he placed his arms by his sides.

"Um… yeah. I guess," he stuttered, unsure how to proceed. This was supposed to be the end.

"Good," Flynn replied, striding confidently back to the battered police car at the other end of the street.


	3. Chapter 3

Jesse wasn't quite sure why he had come back to the house as the officer had ordered.

The man had dealt with a lot of hate directed at him; he'd dealt with that before Heisenberg. Ever since he had started wearing baggy clothes and associating with junkies like him in high school, he had suddenly become the scum of the Earth. Post-Heisenberg, he brought different kind of hate, though. There probably wasn't a soul on the Earth who wouldn't pray for his death if they knew what he had done. That night, he was finally going to give into their wishes.

He could hear the flick of his lighter as he ignited it, and he lit the cigarette that dangled from his mouth with the fire, the sole source of light for as far as he could see on the abandoned street. Pinkman knew that it was time for the beat cops with the night shift to patrol the area, so he refrained from turning on the porch light so as not to draw any attention. He seriously contemplated doing the deed while the officer was gone, surrounded by good memories on her old porch step; if only the damn kid hadn't taken his pills. He'd have to drive to get more, and anyways, he wanted to give the other man any sense of closure that he could offer. Jesse knew he owed him that.

"Get in the car."

In all of his experiences, those four words have never meant anything good.

"Yeah, okay."

He stamped on his cigarette and took the passenger's seat in the slightly battered Ford Taurus, not even bothering with the seatbelt. He waited for the car to start rolling so he could return to his nebulous thoughts as he watched bits of Albuquerque fly by through the window. The car didn't budge.

"Come on, Pinkman, you're with a police officer," Flynn growled, turning his head to the dirty mass in his passenger's seat, "At least pretend to be a law-abiding citizen. Put on your seatbelt." Jesse's mouth hung slightly open as he pulled the grey belt across his chest. The kid had the same condescending tone as his father did, and it was eerie that after all these years, another White was ordering him around and talking to him like he was an idiot. Maybe he was already in Hell.

Jesse's seatbelt clicked in the holder, and the engine revved as Flynn White turned the key in the ignition. Pinkman could barely distinguish the structures in the darkness outside the car window, but his blue eyes peered out anyway and became lost in thought. He hadn't seen ABQ in so long; after years of running and hiding he thought that he'd like some resolution in the town where he grew up. He was stupid to believe nothing would go wrong. If he hadn't come back, he could have been on the edge of life somewhere. He could have heard Jane and Andrea again, sweetly beckoning him to die.

Or he could have seen nothing but blackness. But even that was preferable to living.

The car slowed, rolling over a driveway of a typical suburban house. _Like Mr. White's house_, Jesse thought, but he quickly shoved from his mind the demon who'd haunted him for years. The wheels stopped rolling; coming to a gentle halt, and Jesse had forgotten that Flynn had been driving the entire time. The taller man stepped from the car, and Pinkman followed uncomfortably after.

Flynn held open the door for the other man, and Jesse was sure he was going to die. There was no way in hell that Heisenberg's son invited him into his home to have a rational conversation. Jesse stood in the clean house, reminded of the time when he had done the same in Mr. White's house when he was covered in blue toilet water. This time, though, his host had no reason not to despise him. As he found himself saying so many times over the years, he deserved whatever was going to happen.

"The guest room is in the back," Flynn said gently, catching Jesse totally off-guard, "Get some rest, Pinkman. You look exhausted."

The whole walk back to the spare bedroom, Jesse was gaping. He supposed the horrors would come in the morning.


	4. Chapter 4

The small house was filled with the intoxicating aroma of pancake batter, which was sizzling on the stove in front of the tall, shaggy-haired young man. Flynn rubbed his hand over his face in exhaustion, feeling the bristle of his five-o-clock shadow on his hardened palms. It was Sunday: a day off for the man and one he usually began with a home-cooked breakfast. The sweet smell of batter and fresh berries had nearly led him to forget his houseguest, who he'd assumed was still fast asleep in the small spare bedroom.

_Not sure what there is to say, _he thought as he flipped the pancake over the stove. After years of crafting the perfect script to follow should he ever meet Jesse Pinkman, Flynn was surprisingly lost for words. He shook his head at his troubling situation and watched attentively as the soft, delicate batter developed a toughened exterior over the heat of the pan. He used the spatula to scrape the fluffy disks from the metal, stacking them on a plate and placing them on the table. Now, he waits.

The floor from down the hall began to creak, and the thin man stepped from the bedroom hesitantly. Flynn tried to relax his face so as not to scare Jesse back into the room. All of his pent up aggression towards Pinkman had suddenly been challenged by how perceptibly fragile the man was. The man at the table set out two plates, trying to seem as welcoming as he could be under the circumstances. Jesse continued his wary steps until he eventually reached the table, and he sat in the seat across the officer.

"Eat something, Jesse," Flynn insisted, noticing that the scrawny guy across the table had made no attempt to claim the food in front of him. The young man reminded Flynn of his mother in his mannerisms; he seemed so helpless yet so apathetic towards his own wellbeing. When Pinkman hadn't moved, the dark-haired man reached across the table and forked a few pancakes onto his plate for him. With shaking fingers, Jesse picked up his fork and gradually began to eat. Flynn tried to diminish the feeling of pity that grew from the sight of the withered young man, but Jesse's unconcealed vulnerability and disregard for his own life was not helping things. Out of nowhere, Pinkman stopped nibbling at his food and stared Flynn directly in the eyes with newfound confidence.

"Look man," he started bluntly, his gaze unwavering, "If you're going to yell at me, do it already. If you're going to waste me, just get it over with. Don't sit here and pretend to be 'Mr. Nice Guy' when you have some ulterior motive. That's the kind of shit your dad would do, and right now that's too much for me to deal with." Flynn was offended by the comparison, but he had finally found his words.

"Why did you two do those horrible things?" Flynn questioned, not tiptoeing anymore. He analyzed the guy in front of him and could not picture in his wildest imagination that the scared kid could've done what he'd supposedly done. Jesse was Flynn's age when he'd experienced all of that devastation, while the younger man couldn't even come to terms with the fact that he might have to kill one day in the line of duty. Jesse was smiling, though, glad that Flynn had finally gotten to the point.

"When I started out, it was the money," Jesse admitted, rubbing the back of his neck, "Of course it was for the money. I was twenty-four, I had no skills; your dad made me believe that even more. But he wanted me, and to this day I don't know why." Jesse looked onto his plate with sad blue eyes and continued. "Nobody ever wanted my help, you know, besides people who wanted to buy some weed off of me. Nobody actually even wanted me around. Honestly, it was a tough offer to refuse." Flynn looked on at Jesse, sympathy growing in his chest again despite himself.

"You did all of that because someone wanted your help?" Flynn asked incredulously.

"No, man, that was only part of it," Jesse insisted, rubbing his face. Flynn sighed, ignoring his breakfast and wondering what other influences were involved in turning the skinny emotional wreck before him into the supposed killer that was wanted by the police.

"What other parts were there?" Flynn demanded, losing his cool for a brief moment before he recollected himself. Jesse rubbed his face again in frustration, as if trying to recall.

"Desperation?" he replied, as if unsure, "I cooked with Mr. White because I had nowhere left to go. I did all the bad things I did so I could keep cooking with Mr. White. And hell, don't get me wrong, I tried to back out like, a million times. But somehow, every single time, no matter how many times it bit me in the ass, that bastard could convince me to join back up again." He unwittingly drove his fork into his plate, again trying to hold back tears. Flynn looked down at his own plate, watching his pancakes slowly disintegrate under the syrup.

"Yeah, he was always good at that," Flynn admitted. He had vague memories of it from when he was really young; even then, his father had used his unrivaled powers of manipulation against him. Walter White could never have been held accountable for what he did to people, for in his words there was no real evidence that he meant any harm. It had taken Flynn seventeen years to even realize that his father possessed the trait, and it seemed that it took Jesse a while to figure it out as well. By the time Heisenberg's true nature was revealed, it was already too late for both of them.

"Officer White," Jesse began, and the pain washed from his face and left an expression of the utmost sincerity, "Flynn. I want you to know how extremely sorry I am. For everything your family has been through: you and Mrs. White and your sister and Mrs. Schrader- oh god, I'm especially sorry about what happened to Hank. I know that sorry doesn't even begin to cut it. It's just, I didn't mean for any of this to happen."

"Jesse," Flynn gulped, emotionally crushed by the extent of the young man's guilt, "I don't blame you for all those things." Jesse peered up from the table, looking as though a light had just returned to his darkened soul. The man was no longer the one to blame for the son of Heisenberg. Flynn finally understood that a cancer had torn their family apart: the same disease that had caused Jesse's misery and so many deaths.

That cancer was Walter White.


	5. Chapter 5

A skeleton sat at the kitchen table; her pale blue eyes were glass, still and void of emotion. The blonde hair that draped from her withering head was loose and lifeless, and her old clothes where always two sizes too large for her disappearing body. Between bony fingers, Skyler White dangled a nearly empty bottle of wine: she'd just finished one off two hours prior. Her unwavering gaze was lost in the nothingness in front of her. It was not uncommon for her to lose herself in thought.

"Mom?" rang a child's voice from behind her, but Skyler didn't turn around. Holly waited patiently, brushing back a strand of white-blonde hair that had escaped her ponytail. In her small fingers, she grasped a single sheet of paper that she had received from school earlier that day.

"Yes, sweetie?" the mother's unemotional response finally came, and with a single gulp, the second bottle of wine had been completely emptied. Skyler's gaze remained within the confines of the glass bottle on the table as she heard the tentative footsteps draw nearer from behind her.

"I got my report card today," Holly began, smiling slightly, "I got all As." The nine-year-old was right beside her mother at this point, presenting the sheet of paper, offering it to the woman. Skyler didn't budge; not even her eyes.

"That's wonderful," she replied softly, barely moving her thin lips, but Holly could sense the insincerity. From the time she was very young, the little girl knew when her mother didn't care. She knew it quite well, actually, because Skyler cared about very little.

There was a knock on the door. The little girl looked to her mother, wondering if she should open it, but Skyler still hadn't moved. Holly simply sat on the hardwood floor by the table, ignoring the knocking. Her teachers, after all, had warned her how dangerous strangers could be.

After a few quiet seconds, the knob started to wiggle. Holly could hear the clinking of metal and she watched as the lock shifted on the doorknob. She smiled, because she knew who was standing on her doorstep. It was her favorite person in the world.

"Flynn!" Holly cheered, sprinting to her brother and leaping into his arms. The young man caught his dainty sister with ease, pulling her into his chest. After an embrace that lasted a few short moments, Flynn placed the little girl back on the floor, smiling down at her. His smile faded when he caught a glimpse of his mother, who was still motionlessly perched at the table in the room ahead.

Flynn walked past Holly, bending down to look at the paper that had been abandoned at his mother's feet. Reading it, he peered at his younger sister with sympathetic eyes, and then at his mother with pure anger. He waved one of her empty wine bottles furiously in front of her vacant eyes.

"Jesus mom," he snapped, gazing sadly at the line of As on the report card, and then again at the emptied bottles, "I thought you weren't going to do this anymore." Skyler swallowed visibly, the first sign of emotion she'd shown in hours, and her eyes began to glaze over in tears. Flynn shook his head, disappointed, and carried the two bottles to the recycling bin. "I have to talk to you about something important," he told her firmly, staring back at his younger sister regretfully. Skyler picked up on the implication.

"Holly," she croaked from her spot at the table, "Go to bed, sweetie." The little blonde girl stood in place, suddenly looking downheartedly to the floor.

"But mom," she protested feebly with a heartbreaking sadness in her blue eyes, "I got straight As." Flynn, trying to fight back the tears that stemmed from all the disappointment he knew his sister had faced in her short life, stepped closer to Holly and put a hand on her skinny shoulder. She was too skinny. _God, I hope she feeds you._

"And we are both so proud of you, Holly," Flynn replied, speaking for his mother and smiling sweetly down at the kid, "What say tomorrow, you and I go out to celebrate?" A spark of rare excitement flashed in her baby-blue eyes, and she hugged her brother once again before running back to her bedroom and softly closing the door.

"So," Skyler began testily, "What is this 'important' thing we need to discuss?" Flynn scowled at his mother, still angry that she was drinking again. After all of the AA meetings he'd forced her to attend, he was certain that she'd do what was right for her youngest child and attempt to stay sober. Then again, it had been eight years since Skyler had any semblance of willpower.

"This is about closure, Mom," Flynn began, studying the trembling woman with unhappy eyes, "It's been eight years since he died, and you still let him control your life. For your sake, and for Holly's sake, I'm here to end that." Skyler peered up at her son with a challenging expression. Flynn was secretly happy that he could get any emotion out of her at all.

"How do you plan to bring me closure?" she questioned, almost begging it seemed, "Every time I leave my house, I either get looked at with disapproval or with pity, just because I'm the drunken corpse that's left of Heisenberg's wife. What makes you think you can change things now?"

"Mom," Flynn replied desperately, "At this point, I'm willing to try anything."

Jesse waited by the front window, blue eyes glowing brightly through the glass.


End file.
